


Daylight Robbery

by dracoqueen22



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MTMTE Season Two, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Explicit Noncon, Post Dark Cybertron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:19:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5690914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the dangers he's had to face on the Lost Light, this was not one Cyclonus ever expected to battle. Reaching out for help is the hardest part, but fortunately for him, someone is already reaching back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daylight Robbery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotAnEvilMastermind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAnEvilMastermind/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Silver Linings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6569299) by [dracoqueen22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22). 



Everything was hazy.  
  
He rebooted his optics several times to no avail. There were shadows around the edge of his vision. There was distortion in his audials. Everything registered as though decelerated, time ceasing to flow around him.  
  
He continued to move forward. He didn't stumble, but it was a near thing. He didn't know where he was going, only that he needed to get there. His feet seemed to move of their own accord. They knew the way.  
  
Which was fortunate because Cyclonus did not.  
  
He checked his chronometer, but the time was meaningless to him. He couldn't remember what he had been doing. He couldn't remember where he had come from. He didn't know how long he had been here.  
  
“Whoa. Have a little too much to drink at Swerve's, buddy?”  
  
He didn't recognize the voice. The frame-shape was a blur to him, of colors and size, and Cyclonus didn't know who it belonged to. All he could comprehend was that the mech was shorter than him.  
  
“I'm fine,” he said, or tried to say. It felt clear to him, but all he heard was garbled nonsense and a static-fritz of sound.  
  
Laughter cut through it. The beat of footsteps. They grew distant, as though the mech speaking to him had walked away.  
  
A fleeting concern. Cyclonus was not surprised. He kept one hand on the wall, his right hand, and he kept moving. There was fatigue in his legs, his feet. It felt like some unnatural force was pulling him toward the ground. He wanted to lie down.  
  
Not here. Not in the hallway. He kept moving.  
  
He passed someone. A shape of orange and red. He felt he should know this mech. The vocals were familiar to him.  
  
“You don't look that great, Cyclonus.”  
  
He ignored the mech. The tone was snide, a bit amused. He was of no consequence. He was an obstacle.  
  
Cyclonus continued. He knew he had to be close. He didn't know how long he'd been walking, but the _Lost Light_ was not so large.  
  
His ventilations stuttered. The world swam. Cyclonus had to pause, brace against the wall, as his knees wobbled. He panted, struggling to draw in breath. Alerts rose faster than he could dismiss them. His tanks clenched.  
  
Something poked him in the side.  
  
Cyclonus whirled on instinct, his vision a blur, slashing out with his clawed fingers. He wasn't coordinated enough to draw his blade so this would have to do.  
  
“Whoa! Chill, hornhead!”  
  
Whirl. Of course it was Whirl.  
  
Cyclonus snarled and staggered back, his sword and aft striking the wall of the ship. He hunched, trying to focus, the gangly-limbed rotary standing in front of him.  
  
“Ya were spacin' out. Frag!” Whirl said with a laugh that sounded too high-pitched as it echoed in Cyclonus' audials. “Wanted ta make sure ya weren't dead or something.”  
  
“Just… go away,” Cyclonus muttered. He did not have the energy for Whirl right now and definitely not to fight the mech.  
  
“Whatever, mech.”  
  
He left. Cyclonus breathed a sigh of relief. He pushed himself forward, stumbled, heard an echo in the back of his mind.  
  
_“This thing is hardly used. I'm surprised, Cyclonus!”_  
  
He blinked, staggered forward, light flashing in his optics. There it was. His hab-suite. No, _their_ hab-suite. Was Tailgate even here?  
  
Cyclonus hit the door, taking two tries to get the code in. The door slid aside, dumping him into the room, and he almost fell to his knees. He caught the back of a nearby chair, keeping himself upright. It screeched forward from his momentum.  
  
Movement in his peripheral vision made Cyclonus startle, until his threat protocols recognized friend from foe, recognized the white and blue blur as Tailgate. His defensive subroutines powered back down quickly, but it did nothing to hide the spike in his field or the abrupt roar in his vents.  
  
“Cyclonus?”  
  
Tailgate's tentative query sliced through the noise. It came through as clear as a bell, even as Cyclonus staggered in the direction of his berth. That berth became his directive, his mission. If he could make it horizontal, everything would be all right.  
  
“Cyclonus? What's wrong?”  
  
Movement. Noise. A rush of sound. Tailgate's voice, still the only thing he heard without static. He clung to it, that drop of normality, even though each step toward his berth felt as if he were trudging through tar.  
  
He made it to his berth. He flopped forward onto it, the weight of the Great Sword pressing against his backplate. He didn't have the wherewithal to get up again to remove it. He would sleep like this. He would wake in the morning.  
  
“Cyclonus?”  
  
A familiar field came closer. It pressed in on him with tentative concern. Cyclonus was facing the rest of the hab-suite, could see the blur that was Tailgate next to him. He thought, maybe, he felt a light touch on his arm. A spot of cold against the raging inferno that seemed to have replaced his sensory suite  
  
“Fine,” he said, or tried to say. Whether or not it was intelligible was debatable. His own voice sounded like static.  
  
He needed a defrag. He needed to sleep.  
  
Tailgate's hand was on his shoulder. He hoped it never went away. And then he let the tug of darkness guide him to the blessed relief of sleep.  
  


~

  
Tailgate was worried.  
  
Cyclonus was many things, but clumsy was not one of them. And he'd barely acknowledged Tailgate when he came into the room. He'd looked Tailgate's direction, recognition in his optics, but he hadn't said anything until he collapsed on the berth. And he hadn't even removed his Great Sword!  
  
He was hot to the touch, radiating heat like a furnace. He was shaking. His breathing stuttered. He was covered in condensation. He smelled like interfacing. The scent of ozone clung to him like a bad haze.  
  
Tailgate didn't want to look. It was an invasion of privacy. He swore he read something regarding it in Ultra Magnus' Autobot Code. But he was worried.  
  
In all the time he'd known Cyclonus, this had never happened. He hadn't known Cyclonus to have a… a lover. Nor had he known Cyclonus to come stumbling back in a drunken stupor. Cyclonus didn't get inebriated.  
  
Tailgate shuffled in place. He was still worried. But he didn't want to comm the medbay over something that was normal. Interfacing was normal. Just because it was Cyclonus that had done it didn't make it abnormal. Even if it felt like a punch to the spark for Tailgate.  
  
He was still worried. There were little scratches in Cyclonus' paint, on his thighs, his hips, his sides, but no paint transfers.  
  
He hadn't even taken off the Great Sword! And… and… Tailgate's ventilations caught. His frame went stiff.  
  
His horn was missing! The one Tailgate had made for him to replace the one he'd broken in the fight with Whirl. It was gone. Not broken, because Tailgate couldn't see any remnants, but removed. Why had Cyclonus taken it off?  
  
Tailgate stepped back, wringing his fingers together. What did it mean? He didn't know.  
  
He backed toward his berth and climbed onto it. He sat on the edge, facing Cyclonus, worry and confusion mixing into an unsettling mess in his tank. Cyclonus didn't move. Just lay there like a lump, sleeping, his body giving off the occasional twitch. His fans rattled as they spun, which also wasn't normal.  
  
Tailgate agonized.  
  
What should he do?  
  


~

  
  
Cyclonus woke slowly, his dreams filled with scattered images, blurs, and impressions of events. Pleasure mixed with revulsion and an anger so thick and deep that it drowned out all else. He woke shivering, heat gone from his frame, leaving a chill behind.  
  
He pushed himself up, felt the weight of the Great Sword on his back, the unforgiving length of it pressed to his spinal strut. He'd fallen asleep without removing it? Why hadn't he…?  
  
No. Larger question. How did he get back to his berth? Hadn't he been in the bar? His short-term memories were a convoluted tangle of laughter and Tailgate's voice, Tailgate sounding confused. Tailgate….  
  
Cyclonus onlined his optics and looked at the adjacent berth. Tailgate was still here, laying haphazardly on his berth, as though he'd passed out sometime during the night.  
  
Cyclonus couldn't remember a Primus-be-damned thing. He forced himself to move, to remove the Great Sword and return it to the stand he'd purchased. That took more effort than he had energy to expend, and he stumbled back to the berth, climbing into it.  
  
He was exhausted. His vents rattled. His body trembled as the chill got worse. His head ached, like he'd binged on high grade and was now suffering the consequences. Except, Cyclonus never over-indulged. He couldn't afford to do so.  
  
His array ached. Cyclonus frowned and looked down the length of his body. There were scratches in his armor, ones that left no paint behind, but scratches he could not remember acquiring. His panels were closed, no sign of fluids around them, but his valve ached. His spike registered recent use.  
  
What in the…?  
  
He looked at Tailgate again, alarm shooting through him. Surely he hadn't! He wasn't so intoxicated as to do something so heinous. His field spiked, flaring wildly out of his control. Cyclonus tried to rein it in, but the ache in his head, his exhaustion, it left him feeling unskilled.  
  
Tailgate bolted upright in that moment. “Cyclonus!”  
  
“Are you all right?” Cyclonus asked, begging the powers that be that his suspicions were incorrect, and he'd not committed a travesty on the only mech on this ship who treated him well.  
  
Tailgate scrambled off the berth, almost tripping over his own feet in an attempt to come to Cyclonus' berth. Surely he wouldn't be so daring if Cyclonus had attacked him.  
  
Or perhaps he would. Tailgate was startlingly unaware of his own safety sometimes.  
  
“ _Me_?” Tailgate echoed, almost a squeak, as he braced his hands on the edge of the berth and stared at Cyclonus. “I should be asking you that.”  
  
Cyclonus cycled a ventilation, though it rattled. “I didn't harm you?”  
  
Tailgate leaned forward, his concern like a soothing balm to Cyclonus' frazzled field. “You came back, staggered to your berth, and passed out. You didn't even take off the Great Sword! And—and--” He cut off, backed down, his fingers tangling together as they often did when he was uncertain. “--your horn.”  
  
“My horn?” Cyclonus blinked and lifted his hand toward his head, a feat that should not have been as difficult as it was.  
  
It felt as though someone had poured tar into his cables. Lethargy pulled his frame toward the berth. He wanted to return to recharge, but there was uncertainty nagging at his spark, a growing sense of unease. Why did he have no memory of last night?  
  
His fingers met empty space where he should have had a horn, the very same one Tailgate had made for him. Loss struck at him, sharp and clenching, but in its wake came anger. At himself, perhaps. Or whatever had caused him to misplace such a precious object.  
  
“Why did you take it off?” Tailgate asked and he sounded hurt.  
  
“I didn't.” Cyclonus dropped his hand to the berth. He offlined his optics, tried to focus on his memories, but they slipped out of his grasp. “I don't know what happened. The last thing I remember...”  
  
Flashes of light. Laughter. Watching with amusement as two mechs sparred in a corner and the crowd bet on the outcome.  
  
There was noise. He'd been in Swerve's, hadn't he? He'd gone there because for once, the silence of the habsuite had been too much to take.  
  
He'd had one glass of the usual, certainly not enough to inebriate him. All it did was leave a warmth in his tank, a reminder of things past.  
  
After that… everything was hazy.  
  
Exhaustion tugged at him again. He needed to sleep. He would have to solve this mystery later. The anger fizzled out before he could fuel it. He wanted to be furious, but the lethargy sapped even that from him.  
  
His body sagged into the berth. His processor slipped back into the gray.  
  
“Cyclonus?”  
  
“I'm sorry, Tailgate,” he murmured as he struggled to stay conscious, but it felt as though he were physically fighting the pull of sleep. “I am afraid I need more rest.”  
  
He felt Tailgate's hand on his arm again, still tentative, but very welcome. “Should I call Ratchet? Maybe you should get looked at.”  
  
Cyclonus made a noncommittal noise. “I'll be fine after I sleep a little longer.” His words were slurring with static. The languor suffusing his frame took him over, dragging him down toward the dark. “I'll be fine.”  
  


~

  
  
Cyclonus was asleep again.  
  
Cyclonus was not fine.  
  
Last night, he'd been hot. Now he was cold and shivering. Enough that Tailgate went and retrieved the thin mesh-blanket he sometimes used and draped it over Cyclonus. The warrior did not so much as stir, when normally he'd be hyper aware to anything happening around him in his sleep.  
  
Tailgate's worry magnified. He didn't know what to do. Cyclonus didn't seem to think anything was seriously wrong, but Cyclonus wasn't thinking straight either.  
  
Something happened to him. Something he either couldn't remember or didn't want to admit, and Tailgate was drawing to a conclusion he did not like.  
  
Cyclonus' exhaustion worried him. But maybe Cyclonus was right. Maybe all he needed was rest. Maybe he needed some energon, good energon, not high grade or engex.  
  
Tailgate gave Cyclonus another long look and then left the room. He would get some decent midgrade. Maybe after drinking it, Cyclonus would feel better. Besides, Tailgate could use a little of his own.  
  
He made his way to the Refectory, the halls deserted. It was still pretty early actually. The _Lost Light_ was heading to the next destination at a happy clip, seemingly uncaring about the dangerous mech they'd brought aboard. Tailgate tried not to think about Megatron's presence on the ship too much. It worried him.  
  
There were only a few other mechs in the Refectory. Tailgate recognized them in passing as he made his way to the dispensers. Unlike Swerve's, this energon was free to all aboard the _Lost Light_. Access to suitable energon was a basic Cybertronian right, Cyclonus said.  
  
Tailgate grabbed a cube for himself and for Cyclonus, when the group in the corner started laughing and Tailgate picked out a familiar name in their conversation. Why were they talking about Cyclonus? Something about engex?  
  
“What are you talking about?” Tailgate demanded as he barged in on their conversation, looking up at three mechs who were all taller than him. Then again, a good portion of the mechs on this ship were.  
  
Three sets of optics blinked down at him. “Out of the loop, are ya?” one of them asked. Tailgate couldn't remember his name.  
  
“I take it you don't know then,” another one said, and Tailgate knew this one. His name was Jackpot. “You woulda thought a warrior like Cyclonus could hold his engex.”  
  
“One drink!” the third said with a laugh. “One drink and he stumbled out of Swerve's like his legs were jelly.”  
  
Tailgate stared at them. “And you didn't help him?”  
  
The three mechs stared back as though he'd said something stupid. Like he was the one who suggested making Megatron co-captain of the _Lost Light_.  
  
“No?” Jackpot said, though it sounded more like a question. “I mean, it's Cyclonus. He'd tear my arm off for even getting close to him.”  
  
“Snarl at the very least,” one of the other mechs said.  
  
“Slice us into pieces with that massive knife,” the third offered.  
  
All three of them dissolved into laughter. Anger bubbled up inside of Tailgate. His fingers tightened around the cubes.  
  
“We're supposed to be Autobots,” he said, staring pointedly at the three red badges staring back at him from prominent positions on their frames. “We're supposed to help others.”  
  
He spun on a heel and stomped away, angry all the way to his core, and taking it personal. He remembered how Cyclonus had stumbled in last night. How out of it he'd been. Tailgate wasn't even sure how he managed to make it back.  
  
But something had happened. Something not-good. And these mechs thought it was funny? Just because he was Cyclonus?  
  
It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.  
  
Tailgate returned to his shared room with Cyclonus, disquiet winding through his tanks. Cyclonus was still asleep. He hadn't moved as the blanket hadn't shifted at all. But he was shivering, his mouth moving though no words emerged. His field remained a frenzy, knocking at Tailgate's as though desperate for reassurance. The empty socket stared back at Tailgate, still missing the horn.  
  
Tailgate pushed as much comfort into his own field as he could, trying to soothe Cyclonus in his sleep. He set the capped cube by Cyclonus' berth and consumed his own while he waited for Cyclonus to wake up again.  
  
This time, he vowed, he would not fall asleep.  
  


~

  
  
The second time Cyclonus onlined, the haze had vanished from his thoughts. He still felt lethargic and heavy, but he could think clearer, even though his memory core remained a murky, muddled mess. Poking it for answers yielded no results.  
  
He sat up, rubbing his hand down his faceplate, and cycled a ventilation. He swung his legs over the side of the berth and contemplated standing.  
  
“Cyclonus?”  
  
Tailgate was still here. That realization warmed him all the way to his spark.  
  
Cyclonus dropped his hand. “I am fine,” he said, though he felt anything but. His tank clenched, not from hunger, but as though he'd consumed something that did not settle well. It threatened to reappear.  
  
“Are you?” Tailgate slid down from his berth and approached Cyclonus again.  
  
Cyclonus sighed. He had to admit something was wrong. The blank spots in his memory could not have been caused by overindulgence. And there was no one on this ship he was keen on engaging in intimate contact with.  
  
No one save the mech standing in front of him, looking up at him with a bright, worried visor.  
  
The ache in Cyclonus' valve had eased during his sleep, but there was no denying Cyclonus had recently interfaced. He knew he would not have done so willingly.  
  
The matter of his missing horn was also a concern. Cyclonus would not have parted with that gladly. He had to find it.  
  
“Cyclonus?”  
  
He tried to slide off the berth and landed on wobbly pedes. He swayed, dizziness sweeping in where clarity had offered him peace. Cyclonus drifted backward, bracing himself on the berth, before deciding it was better he remained there.  
  
“No,” Cyclonus had to admit, his gaze turned away, toward the wall, the room spinning. “No, I am not.”  
  
The chills were gone at least. His internal temperature was normalizing. He still felt queasy and fatigued, however. Were it not for the evidence of interfacing, Cyclonus would have believed he caught some sort of easily transmissible virus. Living in close proximity with a bunch of mechs, and not to mention their frequent stopovers on alien planets, it was a possibility.  
  
Tailgate moved away, only to return with a cube of energon, which he held up to Cyclonus. “Do you remember anything?”  
  
He accepted the cube with a soft thank you, though his clenching tank made him unwilling to drink it. “I was in Swerve's,” Cyclonus said, struggling to hold on to the wisps of memory, drifting out of reach. “I had one drink.”  
  
It was pale blue. A new blend. A twist on his usual.  
  
He consumed it slowly, savoring each drop. He remembered watching the other patrons, some with disdain, some with amusement. But they were all blurs of color, bright colors, because Rodimus seemed to attract as flashy a crew as possible.  
  
He remembered that he left. He'd felt dizzy? But he hadn't gone straight home from Swerve's. He must have gone elsewhere.  
  
He remembered stumbling out of the bar. He remembered laughter. And then heat, a warmth against his side. A voice purring in his audial, a hand tickling around his waist. A hand on his panel, sliding down, tracing seams.  
  
He was guided somewhere. A field eclipsed his own, ripe with giddy anticipation and triumph. The hand crept lower, toward his panel, coaxing, claiming...  
  
Cyclonus shuddered.  
  
“I don't remember much afterward,” he said, his tank lurching to the point that even smelling energon was unpleasant. He set the cube aside. “Except the haze where I stumbled back here.”  
  
There was a tentative touch to his hand, the blunt fingers easily recognized as Tailgate's own. Cyclonus hesitated, only to turn his hand over, offering it to Tailgate. Something in that gentle, unassuming contact was soothing to him.  
  
“Something happened,” Cyclonus admitted, his free hand rising, touching the empty socket where his horn should have been. He could see his reflection in the window, and the sight of that loss made him ache.  
  
“We should tell someone.”  
  
“No.” Cyclonus turned toward Tailgate, perhaps too sharply, just like his tone, but the response had been instinctive. He repeated, “No, Tailgate. There is no need. I don't know what happened, if anything. There is little point.”  
  
Tailgate's hand squeezed his. “But--”  
  
Cyclonus rested his other hand over Tailgate's. “Perhaps it is that I'm having a bad reaction to the engex. I am sure my system need only burn it out and I will be fine in a day or so.”  
  
He did not believe it was so simple, but he needed Tailgate to believe it. Cyclonus had only his hazy memories, but his suspicions were there. And unlike Tailgate, Cyclonus had no faith in the Autobots and their justice system.  
  
He had no proof. He had no real accusation to make. For all he knew, the hazy memories were the remnants of a disquieting dream.  
  
Besides, who would believe him? The same mechs who still called him a Decepticon? The same mechs who arrested him on suspicion alone?  
  
No, Cyclonus could not trust that they would treat him fairly. He would not have this humiliation dragged into the open, for nothing to come of it. He had suffered indignity before. He would endure it again. He would bury it deep, and hope it never became relevant.  
  
“But your horn!” Tailgate insisted.  
  
“A prank, I'm sure,” Cyclonus said, his spark squeezing down tight. That loss would hurt him the most. He would seek out the perpetrator on his own, but he would have to be subtle about it. “It seems like something any number of fools on this ship might do.”  
  
“I still think you should go to the medbay at least,” Tailgate insisted, his expression earnest. “Just in case.”  
  
Cyclonus squeezed his hand again and then released Tailgate, shuffling back to make himself comfortable on the berth. “If it hasn't burned out by the next time I wake, I will go to the medbay. Will that suffice?”  
  
Tailgate's hands tangled together. His shoulders drooped. Worry colored the edges of his field. “Promise?”  
  
“On my spark.” Cyclonus briefly rested his hand over his chestplate before he settled into the berth. Exhaustion tugged at him again, as though he'd spent days fighting a fierce war whilst running on empty.  
  
“Thank you, Tailgate,” Cyclonus murmured as he closed his optical shudders and tried to ventilate evenly.  
  
He prayed his recharge would not be haunted by dreams. Or worse, nightmares. He prayed that his memories did not return, as much as he hoped they would. He didn't have a face for his unease.  
  
All he had was a voice.  
  
_Don't ever use this, either? Heh. Guess it's my lucky night.  
  
It'll be our little secret.  
  
No one has to know.  
  
No one ever knows._  
  


~

  
  
Cyclonus fell asleep again.  
  
Worry gnawed at Tailgate's spark. That wasn't normal. And no matter how much Cyclonus refused to admit it, Tailgate couldn't let it go. Even if Cyclonus didn't want to find out what happened, Tailgate did.  
  
It had to be the engex.  
  
Tailgate sighed and shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was reluctant to leave Cyclonus again, but answers wouldn't be found in their habsuite. He needed to protect Cyclonus, even if it meant protecting him from himself.  
  
Tailgate gently patted Cyclonus' hand in farewell. Cyclonus didn't stir. Which was even more worrisome.  
  
Tailgate forced himself to leave, making sure the door locked behind him. If it was the engex, Tailgate knew he had to ask Swerve. Cyclonus never bothered to go to Visages anyway. For a quiet mech, he seemed to prefer the hustle and bustle of Swerve's.  
  
He hurried through the hallways, feeling twitchier than usual. Suddenly, everyone seemed like a criminal capable of committing the worst acts. And that was outside knowing that everyone here was a survivor of a massive civil war.  
  
Tailgate honestly didn't know how to trust. He'd thought everyone on the _Lost Light_ was a good person. Well, everyone except Megatron, of course.  
  
Now, he didn't know what to think.  
  
He nervously tapped his right thigh, where he kept his new pistol. He hadn't really used it yet. He wasn't sure he wanted to.  
  
He made it to Swerve's without incident at least. He passed a few other mechs in the hallway, and they all greeting him with friendly smiles. It was all Tailgate could do to return their friendliness.  
  
Everyone he walked past he wondered, _was it you? Did you do that to Cyclonus?_ He thought he'd be scared. Instead, he was angry. And he got angrier and angrier as time went on.  
  
It was still early enough that Swerve's was deserted. Only Bluestreak was here, sweeping up mess from the night before and carrying on a one-sided conversation with Ten, who was picking up the larger pieces of trash and taking them to the disposal. Bluestreak grinned as he saw Tailgate, his optics lighting up.  
  
“Sorry, we're not open yet,” he said as broken pieces of something clicked together in the dustpan. “I mean, not until Swerve comes in anyway. I haven't gone to sleep yet. I've been up all night.”  
  
“I'm not here for engex so that's okay. Hey, Ten!”  
  
The massive mech no longer intimidated Tailgate. Especially when Ten waved back at him and chirped a cheerful, “Ten!” back at Tailgate. He didn't care what anyone thought. Tailgate was certain Ten knew what was going on around him. It wasn't all Swerve's fiddling.  
  
Tailgate turned his attention back to Bluestreak, who was pulling out chairs to sweep under the table, only to frown over a sticky spill of engex.  
  
“Swerve wasn't here last night?” Tailgate asked.  
  
Bluestreak shook his head. “Nope. It was me. He was busy. Doing something. I dunno. But I offered to take over because it's kind of fun. Gives me something to do, you know. I like it better when I have something to do. Why?”  
  
“Cyclonus is sick,” Tailgate said, and hoped Cyclonus wouldn't get angry with him later. “I was wondering what he drank last night, or if maybe he got the wrong drink, or I don't know. Swerve usually remembers what he serves people.”  
  
“Oh.” Bluestreak shrugged and dropped down to one knee, pulling a rag and bottle out of subspace. “Well, no one else is sick. Maybe Cyclonus can't handle his engex?”  
  
Tailgate's engine revved before he could stop himself. Bluestreak blinked at him in alarm, and Tailgate had to force himself to calm down. Bluestreak was still new to the ship. He didn't know Cyclonus like Tailgate did, or Swerve did.  
  
“Do you remember what you gave him?” Tailgate asked.  
  
“Nope!” Bluestreak scrubbed out the spot and then pushed back to his feet, rubbing at the base of his backstrut. “We were busy. For some reason, people left Visages in droves and they all came here. I was overwhelmed! Couldn't keep up. Luckily, Atomizer and Sprocket stepped in to give me a hand.”  
  
Atomizer, Sprocket, and Bluestreak. Any one of them could have served Cyclonus a tainted drink. Did one of them do it? Did they only try to poison him and someone else attacked Cyclonus, taking advantage of his confusion?  
  
“Anyway, sorry that he's sick. He should go see Ratchet or First Aid. I'm sure they have something that can cure him. Even if it is a purgative.” Bluestreak made a face and shoved aside some chairs with his hip again. “Was that all?”  
  
Tailgate nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”  
  
“No problem!” Bluestreak waved a hand at him as if in goodbye. “Oh, and if he's feeling better later, you guys come by, okay? I'll give him a couple free drinks, if he trusts me serving them that is.” He chuckled and went back to sweeping.  
  
“I'll keep that in mind.”  
  
Tailgate waved goodbye to Ten and took his leave, chewing on the new information. Three potential suspects, at least for whatever they put in Cyclonus' engex. He still had a whole shipful of people who could be responsible for assaulting Cyclonus and stealing Tailgate's gift.  
  
He had to keep investigating.  
  


~

  
  
Cyclonus onlined abruptly, rolling off the berth with a clatter and managing to scramble to his hands and knees before his tank convulsed, and he purged all over the floor. A mottled spew of blue energon – no longer bright – spilled from his lips, viscous and foul. It was barely processed, and too sludgey to be called real energon or engex.  
  
The dizziness was back, though the fatigue had eased. His limbs still felt as though they were being dragged down by weights, but the fog in his mind was gone. His memories were inaccessible, but he could think clearly.  
  
His tank churned. Cyclonus tensed, expecting to purge again. He cycled several ventilations, his frame flushing hot and cold.  
  
He scuttled away from the mess he'd made, and wound up sitting on the ground, leaning against Tailgate's berth. He needed to get up, clean the mess before Tailgate returned. He couldn’t worry the minibot. Tailgate would never believe everything was fine if he saw the purge.  
  
Cyclonus tried to stand, though it took greater effort than he expected. His energy levels were now dismal, though thankfully he had the cube Tailgate brought him. Part of him was reluctant to consume it.  
  
Energon later, clean up first.  
  
He staggered to the cabinet, rifling through the assorted items within before he found an old cleaning drone. It would have to do. Cyclonus activated the drone, and let it do its duty.  
  
He was just in time. No sooner had the drone beeped a cheerful completion did the door slide open, and Tailgate came strolling inside. He looked wary, his armor clamped tight to his frame and his field closed off, far different from the openness he usually had.  
  
“Cyclonus, you're up!” Tailgate said.  
  
Cylonus tried to turn and smile, and his knees wobbled. He caught himself before he fell, but there was an obvious check in his movement. Tailgate caught it.  
  
“You're not better,” he said, planting his hands on his hips. He looked up at Cyclonus, as firm as Rewind chastising Chromedome. “And you promised. You have to go to the medbay!”  
  
Cyclonus sighed. “You are right.” He touched his forehead, dizziness and pain warring inside his mind. When one abated, the other rose to the forefront. “And I did promise. I'll go now.”  
  
“Then I'll go with you.”  
  
“That is not necessary.” Cyclonus cycled a ventilation and made his way to the door with nary a stumble or sway. “I am sure I can make it.”  
  
Tailgate followed right on his heels. “And I'll be there to make sure you do.” His tone set with stubbornness, giving Cyclonus no room to argue, at least, not without coming across as unreasonable.  
  
“Very well,” Cyclonus acquiesced. “I welcome the company.”  
  
Besides, he realized as they left the room, the beam of delight in Tailgate's field was worth it.  
  
They did not speak much as they made the short trip to the medbay. Cyclonus had no wish to discuss his condition, and Tailgate was wise enough to recognize it was not something that should be spoken of in public. It was getting later in the day, however, and they passed many a mech going about their business. No one paid them much mind, save for the usual glares Cyclonus attracted anytime he went anywhere in public with Tailgate.  
  
He was the villain, you see. He was a monster, and poor Tailgate was being led astray by the evil once-Decepticon.  
  
Cyclonus had heard the murmurings, the whispers. For the most part, they did not bother him. He couldn't control what others thought of them and their opinions didn't matter. He cared nothing for them and therefore, cared nothing for what they thought.  
  
So long as Tailgate continued to treat him as friend, the opinions of the others were worth little to Cyclonus.  
  
Luck was with them. Ratchet was the one on duty when they arrived, and he took one look at Cyclonus leaning heavily on Tailgate, and ushered them into a room.  
  
“What on Cybertron have you done to yourself now?” he demanded as he easily lifted Cyclonus on to the berth.  
  
“Bad engex, I think,” Cyclonus said. The dizziness was only getting worse. He thought he was improving, but he was wrong.  
  
Tailgate stood near the head of his berth. “Cyclonus,” he whispered urgently. “Don't lie. Ratchet can't help you if you don't tell him what happened.”  
  
Ratchet stared at them, optics narrowed. “What am I missing?” he demanded even as he grabbed Cyclonus' wrist and plugged into his medical port.  
  
“Nothing,” Cyclonus said as Tailgate blurted out, “Someone attacked him!”  
  
Ratchet's gaze darted between them. “Attacked?” He scanned Cyclonus' frame. “How?”  
  
Cyclonus' engine rumbled. “It doesn't matter. Was the energon tainted or not?”  
  
Ratchet stared at them before he frowned, looking thoughtful. “I don't know if the energon was tainted without testing it, but I can say that there is a foreign contaminant in your system.” He disengaged from Cyclonus' port. “You're going to need a systems flush to remove it because it won't clear on it's own. I'll be right back.” He gave them another long look before stepping out the door.  
  
Cyclonus sighed. A foreign contaminant. So he'd been drugged. He'd expected as much.  
  
“You need to tell him, Cyclonus,” Tailgate insisted as he circled the berth.  
  
He rubbed his face, sighing again. “All I need is to clear the drug from my system. Once I am repaired, I will find my missing horn.” No matter what. “No one else need know what happened.”  
  
“But why?” Tailgate asked, aghast. His field bled dismay and concern.  
  
Cyclonus offlined his optics and leaned his head back. Tailgate would not understand. He believed too strongly. He still had hope. He trusted, perhaps too naively. It was not necessarily a bad thing. Often, Cyclonus admired him for his ability to still believe.  
  
This was not one of those times.  
  
“Because the only thing worse than no one believing me, would be everyone pitying me,” Cyclonus replied.  
  
Tailgate moved into Cyclonus' peripheral vision, wringing his fingers together as his visor flared. “Don't you want justice?”  
  
“If I thought I'd actually get it, perhaps I would consider it.” Cyclonus cycled a ventilation and tried not to sink into the fractured memories that kept flickering into his active feed.  
  
“But--”  
  
The door opened, Ratchet shuffling inside as he carried a tray covered in instruments.  
  
“I recognize this compound. I've seen it before,” he was saying as the door shut behind him. “On at least two other occasions. But you are the first with this contaminant who does not have extenuating circumstances.”  
  
Tailgate shrank back, out of the way, but Cyclonus did not believe for a moment that their conversation was concluded.  
  
Cyclonus frowned. “What do you mean?”  
  
Ratchet hooked a portable tray table with his foot and dragged it close, dumping his supplies onto it before he started setting up the flush. “The first was also high on Syk. I assumed he had a tainted dose. The second was a scientist, complaining of dizziness and memory loss. He thought there was an accident in his lab and evidence seemed to suggest it as well.”  
  
“Then you think there were others?” Tailgate asked. His hand tightened on Cyclonus' shoulder.  
  
“I am beginning to,” Ratchet said. “Be still, Cyclonus. This shouldn't hurt, but if you move, you may tear your lines.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
Ratchet huffed a small laugh. “You've never needed to call me that.” His words felt harsh, but every touch continued to be gentle. “And by the way, Tailgate is right. You should tell Ultra Magnus. He will be fair.”  
  
Cyclonus' optics narrowed, even as he felt the shunt slide into his lines, and the odd sensation of having his fluids leave his frame coursed through him. “You were listening?”  
  
“It is my medbay, after all.” Ratchet continued to work. “But even if you don't report this, I'm obligated to.”  
  
Cyclonus startled. He tried to sit up, but Ratchet planted him back down with a firm hand to his chestplate.  
  
“Calm down,” Ratchet said in an exasperated tone. “I'm not going to give over any names so if you don't want to be involved, you don't have to be. But right now, I'm quite certain someone on this ship is using an illegal drug to do illegal things. And you may be willing to ignore it, but I'm not. I don't intend to treat another victim, do you understand me?”  
  
Damn it.  
  
“Yes,” Cyclonus said as he settled back on the berth. “I do.”  
  
Ratchet's expression softened. “I get it, all right?” he said as he double-checked the connections. Already, some of the edge of dizziness was leaving Cyclonus. It was marginal, but improvement was improvement. “I understand why you want to stay anonymous. I won't force you to speak up, but believe me Cyclonus, bottling it up isn't going to help either.”  
  
“Next you'll suggest I make an appointment with Rung,” Cyclonus muttered.  
  
“It couldn't hurt,” Ratchet replied with a long look. He stepped back, wiping his hands with a metalmesh cloth. “This'll take a couple hours. If I were you, I'd recharge and defrag.”  
  
“Will it fix his memories?” Tailgate asked, sounding hopeful.  
  
Ratchet shook his head. “No. It may be that the drug distorts your recording of the events. Or...” He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “Or, worse, whoever did this to you is skilled in memory alteration.”  
  
“Like mneumosurgery?” Cyclonus asked.  
  
“Not necessarily. Any spy worth his energon can hack a mech, it's just sloppier than mneumosurgery,” Ratchet explained. “So before you start thinking Chromedome is to blame, which I'm ninety-nine percent certain he's not, keep that in mind, too.”  
  
Of all the mechs Cyclonus considered blaming, Chromedome was one of the few not on the list.  
  
“I'll try,” Cyclonus said.  
  
“Please do.” Ratchet's gaze flicked from Cyclonus to Tailgate. “I'll leave you two alone while that machine runs its course. Though I meant what I said. You need to recharge.”  
  
“Thank you, Ratchet,” Tailgate said, his earnestness as endearing as always.  
  
“You're welcome. Both of you.”  
  
Ratchet excused himself, leaving them alone. Cyclonus braced for Tailgate to return to their previous topic, and he was not disappointed.  
  
“Cyclonus--”  
  
“Don't.” He turned his head, reluctant to look at Tailgate.  
  
It was bad enough that Tailgate had worked out what happened to him. Bad enough that he wasn't the only victim.  
  
Victim.  
  
Cyclonus hated applying that term to himself. He did not like knowing someone had abused him. He did not like the fact he had little memory of it. That he'd been taken and used and left to find his own way back home. That he couldn’t seek justice because mechs like him, they didn't deserve it.  
  
“I'm sorry.” Tailgate sounded miserable. “I didn't know Ratchet would do that.”  
  
“It's not your fault.” Cyclonus cycled a ventilation and forced himself to look at Tailgate, reading the misery in the minibot's field. “You are to blame for none of this. Instead, I am grateful for the support you've given me.” He lifted a hand, reaching for Tailgate. “After everything I've done, I am the one who should be sorry.”  
  
Their fingers touched and then tangled. Tailgate's energy field relaxed, the softness of it sliding against Cyclonus' own. He wanted to close his optics and indulge in it, draw upon the comfort and strength. He felt, almost, as though it was the only thing keeping him together.  
  
“For what?”  
  
Shame rose up in him, thick and cloying. Tailgate would not understand this either, that perhaps this humiliation was also punishment, what he deserved for being so callous. He should never have let his anger rule him.  
  
Cyclonus worked his fingers free of Tailgate's. “I should listen to Ratchet and get some rest,” he said. His hand felt cold in the absence of Tailgate's. He resisted the urge to grab the minibot and hold him close.  
  
He pretended he didn't feel the disappointment in Tailgate's field, or the way his optical band dimmed.  
  
“Yeah, that's a good idea,” Tailgate said and he took a step back. “You get some rest and I'll come back in a couple hours, okay?”  
  
Cyclonus closed his optical shutters, so as not to see the way Tailgate turned away from him. He listened intently to the sound of the minibot leaving the room, and only then did he cycle a ventilation, ragged though it was.  
  
He slanted his free arm over his face and optics. He listened to the low drone of the machine as it slowly cleaned the fluids from his lines. He tried not to remember how hurt Tailgate had looked, how often Cyclonus kept hurting him in an effort to protect himself. He tried not to think about the cracked memories fighting against his attempts to bury them deep.  
  
He tried not to think of much at all.  
  


~

  
  
Tailgate left Cyclonus to rest and set out on his own. Cyclonus might not want to find out who did it, but Tailgate did. They deserved to be punished.  
  
But where to start?  
  
Probably with the energon, right? Tainted energon or engex was the best way to introduce a drug into someone's system, wasn't it? People were inclined to drink whatever was in front of them, especially if it was free. No one thought twice about it because the war was over.  
  
It couldn't have been Swerve. He wasn't there the night Cyclonus was drugged. But Bluestreak and Atomizer were. Nutjob was, too, but Tailgate didn't think it was him. He was weird, but he didn't seem the type. He was too forward, while this was sly and sneaky. Tailgate didn't know Bluestreak or Atomizer or Sprocket at all.  
  
Bluestreak was so nice though! Tailgate didn't want to think it was him. But maybe the niceness was a cover? Maybe it was how he gained people's trust, by being nice.  
  
No. Wait.  
  
Ratchet said two others had been drugged. One of them happened before the _Lost Light_ took off from Cybertron the second time around. Bluestreak hadn't been on the job the first time. He hadn't been here for the first one.  
  
Unless that one was coincidence?  
  
Tailgate sighed and rubbed a hand over his head. He didn't have enough facts and he just couldn't go around asking questions without someone realizing what was going on. He needed to be stealthy and spy-like.  
  
He should ask Skids or Getaway for advice. But then they'd probably ask him why he wanted to know. He'd have to explain himself, and Tailgate couldn't do that. He'd betrayed Cyclonus enough as it was.  
  
It had to be Atomizer or Sprocket, right? They were the only ones with access and serving rights to the engex since it wasn't Bluestreak and Swerve. Unless it was a customer who just so happened to be skilled at sneakily slipping drugs into someone's drink when they weren't looking.  
  
But how likely was that?  
  
Tailgate made a beeline for Swerve's. Maybe seeing who all was there would trigger something. Some strange behavior he'd seen in someone before. He could rule out mechs who weren't here the first go round. Maybe, he'd get somewhere to start.  
  
Enough time had passed that Swerve's was busy. Apparently, whatever had caused everyone to leave Visages in a rush was still going strong because Swerve's bar was packed. The minibot himself was back behind the bar, with Bluestreak assisting, and yep, there was Sprocket, too, zipping around the room with a smile and a serving plate stacked with drinks.  
  
Tailgate peered around as best he could, though it was difficult to see through the cluster of much taller mechs. Atomizer was here, too, he realized, cloistered in a corner with Nutjob. He wasn't serving engex this time.  
  
It could be anyone in here, Tailgate realized. He recognized at least a dozen mechs who were regulars, who'd been here from the beginning. Mechs like Hound and Trailcutter and Skids and Rung. Hoist and Grapple and Inferno. Other faces he recognized but whose names he couldn't recall.  
  
He didn't know where to start. Unless he went with the obvious, with Atomizer and Sprocket. Maybe he'd get lucky. Maybe he didn't need to look any further than who was right in front of his optics.  
  
He couldn't very well walk up to them and ask though. For one, they'd lie. For two, they'd be on to him immediately. Tailgate wasn't any good at spy talk. He didn't know how to be subtle. He needed something else.  
  
He needed proof. Something solid to take to Ultra Magnus. If Sprocket had done it and he'd taken Cyclonus' horn as some kind of souvenir, surely he still had it, right? It might even be in his hab-suite.  
  
Tailgate had no idea which room was Sprocket's. But all he needed was a console hooked up to the mainframe to run a search and bam, he had a number. Atomizer and Sprocket shared a hab. And lo and behold, Atomizer and Sprocket were both at Swerve's right now.  
  
Here was his chance.  
  
Tailgate made his way through the hallways to their suite, his spark pounding in his chest. The door was locked, as he knew it would be, but the mainframe also had access to schematics. And it had shown him all he needed, a ventilation shaft just large enough for Tailgate to squeeze through.  
  
Sometimes, it paid to be a minibot. Especially one who had been trained in waste management.  
  
He clattered and clunked his way through the narrow duct, hoping to Primus no one heard him. He peered through the grate when he arrived, and found no one inside the room, which he suspected. Always good to have confirmation though.  
  
Tailgate worked the grate cover off, setting it aside for reattachment later, and crept through the room. He didn't know whose berth was whose, so he searched everything. Cabinets, closets, under the berth, over the berth, storage trunks, and everything in between.  
  
Or behind, as the case might be, because there was more storage behind their cabinet. It was only a huge stack of assorted things, like someone had taken all of their mess and shoved it back there to satisfy an annoyed roommate.  
  
There was another trunk, too. Could this be it?  
  
Tailgate pushed off most of the detritus covering it and worked the trunk free, grunting from the effort. It was almost as big as he was! It wasn't locked – hiding things in plain sight perhaps – and Tailgate flicked the latch, lifting the lid.  
  
It was filled with more random things. It was as messy as what had been piled on top of it. Tailgate started to dig. If he was trying to hide a secret, he'd bury it in a bunch of garbage, too. No one wanted to dig through mess.  
  
There was something at the bottom. Smooth. Cylindrical. Purple. Tailgate wrapped his fingers and pulled it through the mess, into the light.  
  
It was Cyclonus' horn! He'd found it!  
  
Tailgate's spark throbbed with surprise. He quickly snatched it up and held it close. He half-believed he'd find nothing, and here it was, proof!  
  
Which could only mean one thing. Either Atomizer or Sprocket were the guilty party. Surely that was proof enough to take to Ultra Magnus, let him do the questioning from there? Tailgate didn't know. But he'd been in here too long already.  
  
He needed to go.  
  
He tucked the horn into his subspace, gently closed the trunk, and covered it once more. Hopefully, they couldn't tell someone had been looking at it. Tailgate dusted off his hands and inched out from behind the cabinet, only to freeze when he realized he was no longer alone. He'd never even heard the door open.  
  
“What are you doing here, little bot?” Atomizer asked, a gleam in his visor as he leveled his crossbow right at Tailgate's spark. “Getting into things that don't concern you, I take it?”  
  
Tailgate didn't even think about it. Suspicion leapt over the fence into confirmation. He pulled out his blaster without second thought, firing in Atomizer's direction even as he dove for cover.  
  
An arrow thunked into the wall where he'd been standing.  
  
He didn't know if he managed to hit Atomizer or not. It didn't matter. Atomizer was bigger than him. Stronger than him. Probably faster. Definitely more skilled. Tailgate didn't stand a chance.  
  
He threw himself into alt-mode and screeched toward the door, which thank Primus, was still open. He heard Atomizer shouting, the thunk-thunk of a fired crossbow. Tailgate yelped as one grazed his aft before he slammed into the hallway, nearly taking out someone. He didn't know who. They were a blur of color.  
  
Tailgate put pedal to the metal and took off, frantically hitting his comms. He didn't have to look behind him to know that Atomizer was giving him chase.  
  
“Cyclonus! I found him!” Tailgate gasped over the comm.  
  
“What are you talking about? Tailgate? What've you done?” Cyclonus sounded worried, angry, alarmed.  
  
“It's Atomizer!” Tailgate shouted as his tires screeched, and he swerved to avoid a peppering of bolts that narrowly missed taking out one of his tires. “Call everyone! Call Magnus or Rodimus or even Megatron! He's after me!”  
  
“Tailgate?”  
  
He swerved into an adjoining corridor, and nearly took out Nightbeat. Tailgate threw an apology behind him, but with Atomizer hot on his tail, he couldn't stop for an explanation. He had to get to the medbay. The bridge was too far, he didn't know where Ultra Magnus was, and Ratchet was the scariest thing on the _Lost Light_.  
  
“I'm coming your way!” Tailgate shouted into the comm and that's when his world turned upside down, something slamming into him and crashing him against the floor.  
  
“Transform!” Atomizer snarled as they skidded across the ground, sure to leave paint streaks in their wake. His hands scrabbled over Tailgate's chassis as though trying to force him.  
  
“No!” Tailgate's tires spun uselessly, one back tire catching at the ground and leaving behind streaks. He didn't know why Atomizer wanted him to transform, but if it had anything to do with why Cyclonus couldn't remember much, Tailgate wasn't going to do it.  
  
“Then I'll make you transform!” Atomizer hissed and with one great heave, he tossed Tailgate up into the air.  
  
His tank lurched. Fear throbbed through his spark. Two-hundred mechs aboard this ship and not a single one was around to render aid.  
  
Emergency lights started to flash just as Tailgate came crashing down, landing on his side, tires spinning uselessly. Red and orange flashed, almost making Atomizer invisible as he stalked toward Tailgate, lifting a gun. Not a crossbow, but a gun.  
  
“I won't let you ruin everything!” Atomizer snapped, a wild look to his visor, his field a frenzy in the hallway that seared and slashed at Tailgate's own.  
  
Frag it!  
  
Tailgate transformed to root mode quickly, and scrambled to his pedes, but Atomizer dove at him and grabbed his leg. He yanked Tailgate back. Tailgate panicked, kicking out at the arm which held him hostage.  
  
“Get off me!” he shouted.  
  
Atomizer grabbed at him.  
  
And then Atomizer vanished.  
  
Tailgate cycled his optics, his frame trembling. Wha…? He scrambled to his pedes and whirled around as the sound of metal hitting metal echoed around him.  
  
Cyclonus?  
  
Cyclonus was here and he had Atomizer by the intake as medical lines swung from his frame, dripping energon in wild arcs. Cyclonus slammed the red-orange mech down to the ground, once, twice, and then a third time. Atomizer flailed at him, gun in hand, but Cyclonus swatted it away and slammed him down again.  
  
His field was a frenzy, his optics bright and feral. Atomizer's plating screeched every time he hit the floor. The sharp crack of something snapping echoed just as Atomizer howled.  
  
Cyclonus was silent in contrast to Atomizer's snarling and shouting.  
  
Only then did Tailgate realize that they had attracted an audience. The sea of faces around them blurred. He didn't recognize anyone, though he probably should have. More important was Cyclonus, beating Atomizer down. Red and orange armor dented, caved inward. Atomizer tried to scramble free, but Cyclonus was relentless. Manic.  
  
He was going to kill Atomizer.  
  
No. No, he couldn't do that!  
  
It didn't matter what Atomizer had done. Everyone would look at Cyclonus, assume the former Decepticon had snapped, and punish him.  
  
Tailgate threw himself forward, catching Cyclonus' arm, just above a dangling bit of medical tubing. “No, you have to stop,” he shouted, nearly falling as Cyclonus' arm lowered.  
  
He could see Cyclonus' face now, the way his mouth pulled into a snarl, how he bared his denta. How there was as much fear in his expression as there was anger and disgust.  
  
“If you kill him, it's over,” Tailgate said.  
  
“Yes, because he'll be dead,” Cyclonus replied, his low voice almost a snarl.  
  
“No.” Tailgate squeezed his arm. “Because right now, all they can see is an Autobot being attacked by a Decepticon.”  
  
“I'm not a Decepticon!”  
  
Tailgate projected calm into his field. “I know. So prove it. Do it the right way. The legal way.”  
  
Silence fell, save for Atomizer's rattling ventilations, and the splatter of his energon on the floor. The watching Autobots were murmuring, but Tailgate had kept his voice low, hoping none of them would suspect what had happened.  
  
Cyclonus was tense, so tense Tailgate feared he would shatter, but then he dropped Atomizer. The broken mech hit the ground with a clatter and a moan of pain.  
  
Cyclonus stepped back and away from Atomizer. He scraped a hand down his faceplate. He cycled a ventilation, and then another one. His field remained wild and upset, but the murderous rage was gone, no doubt buried deep.  
  
“What in Primus' name is going on here?”  
  
Ultra Magnus' booming vocals sliced through the tension as the crowd parted, making room for him. Mercifully, Ratchet was right behind, the medic's expression stormy, especially the moment he noticed Atomizer trying to roll to his side and get up. But Cyclonus had broken something inside of him, and all he could do was flop around weakly.  
  
“It's not what it looks like!” Tailgate rushed to say, stepping in front of Cyclonus, putting himself between his dearest friend and the angry former Enforcer. “Tell him, Ratchet!”  
  
The medic sighed and pinched his nose. “There is more to this story, Magnus. For now, we need to get that one to the medbay before he dies, and we can't punish him. I'll explain later.”  
  
“Rodimus and Megatron are on their way,” Ultra Magnus said as he gave Cyclonus and Tailgate a wary glance before kneeling down to scoop up Atomizer.  
  
“Then you can direct them to the medbay,” Ratchet snapped before whirling around and waving his arms. “That's it, folks. Nothing to see here. Move along! This is none of your business!”  
  
What came next was chaos.  
  
Cyclonus and Tailgate went to the medbay with everyone else involved. Tailgate refused to leave Cyclonus' side, his hand curled around the warrior's.  
  
Cyclonus had gone inward, as he always did. If it wasn't for the fact Ratchet barked at them both to sit down and not move, Tailgate suspected Cyclonus would have already found the nearest window. His optics were downcast, his expression free of emotion, but a subtle tremor ran through his body every once in a while. And his field kept tapping at Tailgate's in quiet request one that Tailgate obliged.  
  
Ultra Magnus asked them questions first, taking down their responses, every inch of him the neutral law enforcer he claimed to be.  
  
To Tailgate's surprise, Cyclonus admitted what happened to him, though it was said in a quiet tone, his gaze everywhere but at Ultra Magnus. His hand tightened around Tailgate's as though drawing strength from it.  
  
It made the difference, perhaps, that Ultra Magnus appeared to believe him. It helped that Ratchet could corroborate much of what Cyclonus said, and that there were other victims, Tailgate supposed. There were two that Ratchet suspected, and even First Aid had spoken up, offering a third, though no names were mentioned where Cyclonus or Tailgate could hear them. Ratchet suspected that if they looked into Atomizer's history, really looked, they'd find a lot more, though perhaps not all on the _Lost Light_.  
  
When Ratchet said he would protect the victim's identities, apparently he meant it. Though Cyclonus didn't relax. He remained tense, withdrawn.  
  
Ratchet attended to him briskly, and Tailgate knew he was concerned because Ratchet's grumbles were half-sparked as he removed the lines Cyclonus had torn and applied a few small bandages. He said Cyclonus was flushed enough, and he was free to go as soon as Magnus approved it.  
  
Ratchet didn't have any kind words for Atomizer, though he still patched him up, Tailgate noticed. He supposed that's what it meant to be a medic. It made Tailgate glad, in that moment, that he'd been in waste disposal. He didn't know if he could be like Ratchet. Every time he looked at Atomizer, he wanted to finish the job Cyclonus started, even though he knew it wasn't the right thing to do.  
  
Besides, it was important Tailgate stay next to Cyclonus. His friend shook so hard that Tailgate feared he'd rattle right out of his armor. Cyclonus' hand was wrapped around his own anyway, so Tailgate couldn't get up even if he wanted to. If Cyclonus was drawing strength from that contact, Tailgate wasn't going anywhere.  
  
Ultra Magnus let them go when he was done. He said he'd contact them later if he had any further questions, but they were free to go. He wouldn't even punish Cyclonus for attacking Atomizer or Tailgate for breaking into his suite considering the extenuating circumstances. Though he did give Tailgate a stern talk, reminding him that there were procedures and rules. Tailgate promised to come to Ultra Magnus in the future. Cyclonus said nothing.  
  
Still, no punishment meant there was one less thing to worry about.  
  
Mechs stared on their way back to their habsuite. Tailgate didn't know what they whispered to each other, and he didn't care. He would do it all over again. Cyclonus needed looking after and Tailgate intended to be that mech.  
  
Back in the privacy of their habsuite, the silence grew between them. There was something in the air, something that smacked of expectation. Tailgate didn't know what it meant, but he watched Cyclonus stand in the middle of the room, maybe debating between the berth or the window.  
  
“Thank you,” he said, finally, as Tailgate hovered near the door.  
  
Tailgate cycled a ventilation. “I should be thanking you,” he said with a little chuckle. “You always have good timing.”  
  
Cyclonus slanted him a look, something like amusement in his field, and then he moved. To the window it was.  
  
Tailgate wished he could be surprised. But he wasn't. Even after all this…?  
  
Tailgate joined Cyclonus at the window. He wondered if Cyclonus could hear the clattering of his armor. If not now, when? If he didn't gather his courage and speak up, would he ever?  
  
“You're welcome,” Cyclonus said as he looked down at the minibot. “You always seem to find some new way to get in over your head, don't you?”  
  
Tailgate huffed and looked up at him. “And you never ask anyone for help,” he countered mulishly. “You don't let anyone in either. You just stare out the window.”  
  
Did he sound upset? He both did and did not mean to. But there were only so many times Tailgate could walk into a room and find Cyclonus staring out the window, lost to his own thoughts, before Tailgate started to wonder if maybe he was a bother after all. If Cyclonus would be happier if Tailgate walked out of his life.  
  
Cyclonus stared at him for a long moment before he stirred, slowly lowering himself to one knee so that they could look directly at one another. “And for that I apologize,” he said. “I've spent so long being alone and tormented that I've forgotten what it means to lean on another.”  
  
“Is it really that hard? To rely on someone else?” Tailgate asked, and his voice crackled a little as his courage faltered. But he would do this. He would press on. “Why can't you lean on me?”  
  
Cyclonus' gaze lowered, his field so tightly held as to be unreachable. “It is not so simple.”  
  
“It can be if you want it to be,” Tailgate insisted. His spark felt like it was squeezing in his chest and he had to say this. He had to get it out. “I mean, come on, Cyclonus! Isn't it obvious by now? Everyone else knows but you! Or maybe you do know and you just don't know how to let me down gently. But I can't take it anymore, I have to know!”  
  
His ventilations stuttered and he knew his optics were flaring behind the visor and his field was long out of his control. But once he started, he couldn't stop the tide. Everything he'd wanted to say, been meaning to say, poured out of him in a flood.  
  
“If you want me to walk away, I will,” Tailgate said, his hands so tangled that his fingers ached. “If I'm boring or an annoyance or if I embarrass you or whatever, just tell me, and I'll go. But if not, if you feel anything more for me than… than tolerance or whatever it is, I need to know. I can't keep on like this. I just...” He trailed off, vents hiccuping, and he was looking everywhere but at Cyclonus.  
  
He felt angry and embarrassed. This had been building for a long time and he wanted to be more articulate than this, but he just couldn't. It was the best he could do.  
  
Cyclonus' silence was too telling. Too painful.  
  
Tailgate's shoulder's slumped.  
  
“I just want to know if I have a chance,” Tailgate finished, though judging by Cyclonus' ongoing silence, he already had his answer.  
  
Until Cyclonus moved and Tailgate felt the first tentative touch on the top of his head before Cyclonus' hand cupped his head gently.  
  
“I do not deserve you,” Cyclonus murmured and his field finally opened back up to Tailgate. Humble and affectionate and beneath it, a dark ripple of shame. “And I am sorry that I left you uncertain for so long.”  
  
Tailgate gathered his courage and looked at Cyclonus. “That doesn't answer my question.”  
  
“No, it does not.” Cyclonus leaned forward and his forehead pressed to Tailgate's gently. “My spark is yours, Tailgate. If you'll have me.”  
  
“Do… do you mean that?” Tailgate asked, his spark throbbing with warmth. “No, wait. Of course you meant that. You never say anything you don't mean.” His visor lit up with joy, and he threw his arms around Cyclonus' neck. “Yes, I want you! And you… you want me, too?”  
  
Cyclonus' free arm wrapped around Tailgate, pulling him close. “I do.”  
  
Elation burst through Tailgate's spark in a happy wave. He jittered in place, held in the warmth of Cyclonus' arms and wrapped up in the warmth of Cyclonus' field.  
  
“I am sorry it took me so long to tell you,” Cyclonus said, his rumbling vocals purring into Tailgate's audials.  
  
“Better late than never,” Tailgate replied as he squeezed Cyclonus tightly.  
  
He wanted this moment to last forever. He hated that it had taken something awful to finally bring them together, but sometimes, that was how things worked out, he supposed. It wasn't going to be perfect, he knew that already, but it was a start. It was a beginning. It was a chance, and that was all Tailgate ever wanted.  
  
He only wished he had something to make the moment even more special. And then he remembered. Perhaps he should have handed it over to Ultra Magnus, but it had slipped his mind at the time. Besides, it belonged to Cyclonus, not some evidence pocket of Magnus' subspace.  
  
“Wait. Hold on. I have something.” Tailgate squirmed free of Cyclonus' embrace and shoved a hand into his subspace. “I found it.”  
  
“Found what?”  
  
He pulled out Cyclonus' horn. “This.” He presented it to Cyclonus, beaming with pride. “I made this for you. It wasn't his to take.”  
  
“No. It was not.” Cyclonus' smile was warm as he stroked a finger down the length of it, though he did not take it from Tailgate's hand. “And I can think of no better person to put it back where it belongs.”  
  
He bowed his head, offering the empty socket to Tailgate. From here, he could see that it clicked into place. No wonder Atomizer had been able to remove it without destroying it.  
  
Tailgate held a ventilation and very gently reattached the horn, his fingers stroking the length of it as it slotted into place. Cyclonus' field meshed with his, soft with affection, and he raised his hand, giving Tailgate a genuine smile.  
  
“There. Now you look like you again,” Tailgate said.  
  
“And it is all because of you.” Cyclonus took his hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Thank you, Tailgate.”  
  
His face heated. “For you, Cyclonus, anything.”  
  
He was treated to another one of those rare, but genuine Cyclonus smile before Cyclonus swept him up in an embrace.  
  
It was going to be all right, Tailgate thought as he squeezed Cyclonus tightly. Together, they could get through anything.  
  


****

**Author's Note:**

> This shouldn't have to be said, but given the way fandom tends to be nowadays... I don't hate Atomizer. This is not intended to be character bashing. I picked someone to fill a role, that's it. I could have also picked Johnny No Name from the dozens of mechs who haven't been named on the ship yet, but I didn't want to use an OC.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Silver Linings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6569299) by [dracoqueen22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22)




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